


Empty

by mansikka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depressed Castiel, Emotional Castiel, M/M, Pining Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 02:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12400935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: Cas is in the Empty, alone, and thinks about his life, and Dean.





	Empty

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :) in case the tags haven't already given this away, this isn't a happy fic. I know normally, there's at least a hopeful ending for these things, but if there is one here (and of course, there's the possibility for one), it would mean a second part...
> 
> (also... only proofread this once...)
> 
> Um. Enjoy?
> 
> x

It isn’t cold here. Nor is it warm; just a tepid kind of clinging feeling to the very air around him, seeping through the pores of the flimsy fabric covering him, right to his very skin.

Not _flimsy_ , Cas amends to himself, looking down at the trenchcoat, pants, and shirt that have become as much a part of him as that skin beneath them. Trivial things to become attached to, and a pitiful demonstration of just how little Cas has to speak of from his _life_. But that’s who he is, and that’s all he’s got here in this Empty, where there is likely an abundance of other beings, yet it truly feels as though there is only _him_.

Empty, Cas thinks, _I_ am empty. There is nothing left to fight for, no reason for being: not hope, not justice, not the promise of a world without fear and doubt. Nothing; all that he’s fought for, all those _wins_ he’s been so desperately seeking out for so long have come to nothing. Because he is _here_ , and the World is _there_ , and there is no way to cross the impossible.  

Besides, Cas adds to himself with a sigh that echoes out into the nothingness that is his surroundings, there is nothing to go back to. Kelly no longer needs his protection, likely having found her way to Heaven, since there is no way for her to have survived a Nephilim birth—serving her _purpose_ and now discarded—very much like him. And the child, he thinks, his heart sinking, _Jack_ ; he won’t need him either. Cas had so much _hope_ for a future with Jack in it with all the beautiful things he’d shown him, that bond the Nephilim had shared with him even from the womb.  

But when Lucifer…

Cas closes his eyes, looking down to where that angel blade had protruded right through him, wishing he could interpret the final look on Dean’s face before all the light in the world had gone out. And all that hopefulness, and painlessness he had envisioned for the world, and everyone in it—especially Dean, was stolen from him. Lucifer’s last thoughts still taunted him, reaching out into his mind as though the ghost of him still lingered there, and reminding him it was all for nothing. That _he_ was nothing, and had achieved nothing, and was the last thought on everyone’s mind.  

 _Dean_ , Cas thinks, closing his eyes to that constant state of ache he feels thinking about him—has felt, for the longest, longest time.  

He hadn’t _meant_ to feel anything for Dean. He wasn’t _meant_ to feel anything for anyone—not like _that_ , anyway, and especially not a _human_. There were other angels who had disappeared into an existence of frivolity and fornication, or even just mundane human lives that, Cas realizes, he’s envied more than looked on in curious fascination like he’d tried to convince himself he’d been doing.  

But that kind of _existence_ wasn’t meant for him; neither the decadence Balthazar had indulged in for so long, nor the simplicity of living, breathing, walking the Earth as though it really was his home. And when feeling especially weak, Cas found himself imagining what it would be like to do that in particular with Dean by his side.

Cas has thought about doing that. Cas has thought about doing that so many times, finding himself indulging in thoughts of what it might be like to reach out for Dean without hesitating, to make all the kinds of gestures he sees other people making to the people _they_ care about, but he isn’t allowed to do himself.  

He’s thought about, for instance, what it might be like to sit beside him at the table in the morning, to watch Dean scrape eggs and bacon down on to the plate waiting before him, then nod for him to try them—and to be able to _taste_ them. To then thank Dean for that breakfast with a quick kiss, or a squeeze of fingers, perhaps contribute to their breakfast routine by doing the dishes before they go about their day—that is _normal_ ; struggle free, without hunting, and no true problems to worry about.    

And he’s thought about, oh, so many things besides. Waking up with Dean, in a warm, wide bed with no space between them. Dean reacting to him growing out that _peach fuzz_ again, or trying on a new coat, or even just smiling at him for no other reason than he wants to, just because he _can_. About accepting the mantle as _brother_ ; but only brother to _Sam_ , and having Sam so warm and accepting of them together, that Cas can feel the blush of his gentle teasing already on his cheeks.

Instead of the tears that are falling currently for how much he misses Dean, and how that dream of Dean that won’t ever come to fruition.

With a scathing blast of angry words for himself, Cas brushes the back of his hand roughly over his cheeks, and forces himself to keep moving. He has nowhere to be, and no place to go, which is no different from how he’s been feeling for possibly a couple of years anyway when he _was_ living. _Surely_ , he taunts himself, _you didn’t think you’d get to escape that feeling here, and now, after everything. After everything you’ve done. Did you?_

All those months in the bunker with little but TV shows for company. All that time with Lucifer inside him, where he switched off to everything, withdrew into a corner of his mind, and just let him _be_ ; all that time spent in emptiness, and being numb. Cas knows exactly two feelings that have been his constant for so very long now, no matter what else is going on in the world: wanting _Dean_ , and feeling empty, pointless, nothing inside.

It shouldn’t be possible to feel those two things at the same time because of how _much_ he feels for loving Dean, but Cas knows he’s felt them. _Still_ feels them—it’s just that here in this Empty, his insides acclimatize to all that’s on the outside, so that Empty feeling is in him, _is_ him, and is forever surrounding him. It’s both a cushion and a constriction, a constant and a conundrum, and Cas doesn’t know who he’d be without that continual conflict he’s always had for not belonging anywhere anyway, so it’s not like it’s something additional to adjust to.  

It isn’t _just_ about Dean, either, Cas thinks to himself, looking out along the endless horizon that doesn’t falter, then overhead to a sky that never distinguishes between day and night. There’s not even a color he can describe here; neither grey, nor sepia, some fluctuating nothingness in between that never _becomes_ anything. Empty is a deceptive word, because this place is devoid of everything, and _Empty_ suggests there must be things that had once _been_ here, and there is nothing. And yet there must be _something_ , Cas thinks to himself, going in circles, because _he_ is here.

He’s lost his train of thought.  

Cas walks for miles, or maybe even only a few steps, before his earlier argument comes back to him; his lack of belonging is not _solely_ because of Dean. Even he, with that unrequited love Lucifer so delighted in teasing him for until Cas shut his thoughts off almost altogether, is not the sum total of why Cas doesn’t belong.  

He’s no longer a foot soldier, doesn’t trust himself to be a leader, and any future as either of those things as an angel in heaven he snuffed out himself, along with all those _lives_. Yet he’s also not a human; he might be able to perform the most basic of functions, like adding gas to his car when it runs low, and using the hateful _internet_ when there’s something he needs. But to walk amongst them, and truly be one of them; Cas knows he’s failed at that multiple times over. And god himself knows just how much Cas loathes himself at times for all he’s failed to do for Claire, all he’s taken from her by being what he is.

Would he choose either, if he could, Cas asks himself, with scorn for the game he’s playing in his own head, since neither thing is possible now. An angel with all that power yet so alone, despite the constant noise of _angel radio_ , or a life as a human when there’s no real place for him to be, or go. No purpose to follow. Nothing he’s confident he can do.  

It’s a spiraling thought, one Cas has had multiple times over, so shakes his head, keeps on walking, back to indulging in thoughts of Dean—because there’s no reason to feel guilty for such things anymore, not here. Not where Dean might notice the outward expression of them on his face, acknowledge the way he looks at him isn’t just in fascination, but also in longing, painful need.

Cas never wanted to need anyone. Never wanted to have moments of agony just for not knowing if another being was okay. Never wanted to feel all those physical things he’s felt for Dean, or have his _vessel_ respond to without him consciously wanting it to. He’s never wanted to ache so much for being in the same room as another person yet still feel entirely galaxies of distance between them because he can’t _touch_ them.  

He never meant to fall in love. And now, Cas thinks, feeling those tears falling again, everything is ruined. He’s fought so hard against it, been so close to giving into it, yet never, never presumed it would be accepted, reciprocated, truly _wanted_ , so has never taken a moment, not even once.  

And Dean—

Cas closes his eyes, pleads with his limbs to keep moving. It’s odd, he thinks, thoughts wandering again, that he is now contained within this tiny, human body, yet it feels like the true version of himself, and is the form he has taken in this _Empty_ beyond. He’d assumed, since this is the dwelling place of all angels and other beings not destined for Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory, that he’d perhaps revert to his angel form. But he hasn’t, and he doesn’t want to, wants to feel more surprise than he does for being so unconcerned about what really is his _true_ form or not, but doesn’t feel much of anything. Except bouts of despair, regret, hopelessness, that intersperse the great nothingness that comprises all of his thoughts.   

But Dean, Cas thinks, slumping into himself, Dean _would_ be constant in spite of all that, wouldn’t he. Seemingly haunting him, though _he’s_ the one that’s still alive. And it’s not fair, it isn’t; there have been too many _almosts_ between them, too many moments of closeness that have come to nothing, either because of external interruptions, or because neither of them had the courage to _do_ something about these feelings that have been brewing between them all this time.

Dean would deny it, of course, never voice out loud all those thoughts he’s been having. But even he can’t deny all that he feels for Cas inside his own mind. And to Cas, it’s been a constant form of torture, all that yearning, wishing, hoping, and fantasizing. Every lustful thought, every loving one, and every other kind in between; Cas has heard all of them. Dean has to know they all come to him as a prayer, that he hears every one of his directed thoughts.  

It’s not like he’s _tried_ to listen, Cas defends to himself; in fact, in the beginning he fought hard to switch Dean off. But he’s never succeeded; not in the beginning when he thought the urge he felt for Dean was nothing but the residual seeping through of Jimmy’s human needs, nor after when this body became truly his, and his reactions were entirely the same—only stronger, more frequent, and so much harder to pretend weren’t happening.   

Dean _loves_ him, Cas sighs, and that might be even worse than him _not_ loving him. Because Lucifer had been wrong about that—Cas’ love wasn’t unrequited, or not returned, because Dean _did_ love him, plain as anything. He was just too frightened to give into it, too stubborn to do anything about it, because _loving_ someone to Dean was weakening, a frivolity to be indulged in by other people. Not trusting himself not to break something so important to him, or not to let them down, mess things up—and whatever other excuses Cas has heard so many times on repeat.

They’ve never said a single word about this out loud, of course. Everything has been a one way surge of feelings from Dean, and the rest unspoken in all their _looks_. So many times, Cas has seen the way Dean’s fingers itch to _reach_ for him, yet every single time has stopped himself, and Cas has grown so used to those non-actions, that it has been an age since he has reacted, braced for what it might feel like to have Dean’s skin against his own.    

Not that he loves him any less, of course, Cas thinks to himself, berating the torture that is still having to _think_ , and _feel_ in this Empty place that is now his home. He’s been here weeks, months, eons, and yet only minutes or hours might have passed on Earth. And through all of his acceptance that this is _it_ for him, now, that love for Dean still pierces through, won’t let him have a moment of solitude or peace from all that _might_ have been, if only either of them had been brave enough.  

Maybe, Cas thinks, with a harsh laugh to himself, Dean is thinking of him—praying to him—even now. Which is pointless, and is also cruel; if they couldn’t do anything about this _problem_ between them when they were both alive, then there is nothing to be done when one of them is _gone_. To have to keep _hearing_ him is agony, and the moment Cas acknowledges he is, he _is_ still hearing Dean, is the moment he loses himself entirely.

Cas charges through the Empty as though it is too small to contain him. Striding across deserts that only exist in his thinking, and climbing mountains only conjured in his mind. Anything to outpace _him_ , outpace _Dean_ ; because Dean cannot be the one thing lingering here to keep him tethered to the Earth, not when he was too afraid to _want_ him when he was there—and not when Cas has no way back.  

They could have taken any number of moments. Could have sat down, forced difficult words out, admitted neither of them knew what they were supposed to do with how they were feeling. But it would have given Cas something else to cling on to, despite the constant need to keep proving himself, over and over—not just to Dean, but also to himself—only to fail, every single time.

Did Dean not wonder why he shut himself off? Did he not realize why his calls went unanswered, his prayers were met with silence, and why the length between his appearances grew each time? Did he not _feel_ Cas trying to let go of him, despite not wanting to, because he had come to believe that _he_ would forever fail _Dean_?

Cas had become so tired of constantly failing, of forever receiving looks of disappointment, of being on the receiving end of Dean’s anger and his refusal to hear him out. Why did Dean _think_ he kept on trying so hard to get a _win_? Why didn’t he realize that he _needed_ one for himself, as well as _him_ , to stop feeling as though he stumbled from one disaster to another without even taking a breath.

His thoughts are a jumble, clambering to get over each other to be heard, and it’s worse than the numbness that is the frequency that underwrites so much of what he’s feeling, his quiet, go-to place when everything else becomes too much. Which is always; at least with the numbness it’s like sinking back into a pool of water, allowing clouds to drift past him overhead, as his fingers swirl either side of him, and nothing else to do. With numbness, he doesn’t _have_ to think, or feel, or do anything but succumb. And when numb, he—

Dean is calling to him _again_.  

Cas is torn between frustration and falling into a fresh well of despair; Dean sounds so broken, so inconsolable, so full of pure, pain-filled regret for all the things he _hasn’t_ said and done, and self-loathing for all he _has_. At least there is distance between them here, Cas thinks, remembering far too many times how hard it’s been not to reach for him, to give _Dean_ comfort for the way he’s aching for how he’s treating _him_.

A surge of anger at Dean rises up in Cas again, lasting all of several seconds, and then he’s back to missing him, wanting to reach in to Dean’s thoughts and either reassure him that he’s listening, or tell him that everything is better this way.

It is, Cas sighs, taking off once again to the nowhere that he’s going, it _is_ better. Dean will forget him soon enough, and in the meantime, find countless bottles or warm bodies to indulge in until Cas has faded from his mind. And then he can go on living, either hunting as Dean’s convinced is his only way of being, or even another, safer life that is the one Cas wishes Dean would have—that he wishes _he_ could have with him.  

Dean is grieving for him, Cas thinks then, a little dazed by the idea. He’s grieving for him like he’s truly lost something, yet also refuses to believe he’s truly gone. He’s pleading with him to come back to him, repeatedly telling Cas he loves him. Promising he’ll do anything to have him back, and won’t hesitate this time about telling him—showing him how much he is loved.

He’s heard these words before, Cas thinks with a slump. When Cas has left him for longer periods in the past, either through choice or those constant external influences, Dean’s spun him the same tale almost word for word. And Cas gave up believing those words when the hurt caused by Dean repeatedly _not_ acting on them became unbearable. It’s _good_ that he’s not in a position to fall for the same empty promises now.  

 _I love you_ , he hears, louder than ever, _I love you, I do; please. Please, Cas_.  

But what does Dean think Cas can do about this? Lucifer killed him, and their father has no interest in either stopping all the destruction he’s been causing, or cleaning up any of the messes that he’s made. He didn’t even stick around long enough to _talk_ to him, Cas huffs to himself, telling himself he isn’t hurting for that as well. There _is_ no way for him to go back. No spell to cast, no souls to be bargained for, no weight of wishful thinking that Cas can’t even return. Not for the inevitability of being hurt again, of being wrong again, of Dean not voicing out loud what it is he truly wants.  

No, Cas tells himself, striding off once more towards the edge of nowhere, there is no way to go back, and there is no _want_ in him to go back. Not to be rejected, be constantly not enough, be a constant _failure_ all over again, without a home. It’s better to be in this existence if he has to exist at all. At least here there can be no new things, no new words or lack of gestures to hurt him. At least here, he has no choice but to resist the pull he has to Dean.

 


End file.
